“A dumbskull!” ejaculated the strange gentleman, standing amid his baggage.
“Why! How mean!” cried Mary.
“Where were you going, sir?” Tom Swift asked.
“To a place called Shopton. Do you know it?”
“We live there,” said the young inventor briskly. “It is not far. If nobody else comes along, the young lady will drive you in my runabout. I will stay until help comes for the car. Or, maybe, we can get it out of the mud ourselves.”
“Ach! Not me!” cried the stranger. “I must not soil or injure my hands. I do not lift weights. I am not here to strain my muscles and rack my nerves for such things as this. Ach, no!”
Tom and Mary stared at each other. They did not know whether to be amused or disgusted with the stranger. He seemed willing enough to accept help, but he was not inclined to help himself!
“Well,” Tom said finally, and dryly, “you don’t mind if I try to recover your car for you?”
“Not at all,” declared the man, with a shrug. “You will do what you please. But I, I do not aid.”
“But it is your car? You bought and paid for it?”